My Hillbilly Hat

 

The Big City

Part 2 of 28

You have to know I hate the old attitude cosmopolitans have of making fun of a guy’s hillbilly hat and laying it on thick. In my world, that’s just plain rude. And if it weren’t me on the receiving end of their “fun,” but some other put-upon innocent guy, I’d be first in line to take them on and put them in their place.

First, there’s nothing wrong with a hillbilly hat. On simple practical grounds, it fits loosely, it covers a lot, and it’s quite comfortable. So I don’t know exactly what their point was. It might be that one of the idiots decided hats like that are behind the times and started the pointing and laughing. Then the others, who honestly didn’t see anything wrong with it thought they needed to jump in on the festivities so they wouldn't be teased. So none of them except the first guy really knew what they were laughing at but did it anyway out of some crazy immature group-think.

That conclusion completely minimizes their fun and puts me in the driver's seat. Although it's equally possible that all of them knew exactly what they were doing and knew it was wrong. So it's likely they did respect me but were unsure of the opinion they should show, which should have been just common sense good judgment, but they couldn't do the right thing because they weren't sure the others would go along with it. So that's it, these dweebs knew better, but with a roughhouse group dynamic like that it always seems good to jump on someone. Let’s say there’s just one or two of them who started the fun. The others have a problem to resolve: “How can the rest of us stand back and not get the joke?”

Or it could've been the joke was obvious and they were just looking for a little validation -- anything would do -- before erupting in one boisterous mass. It’s a clash of civilizations, and naturally they think their civilization -- the Big City -- is not just the dominant but the only valid one. Anything varying from their mode of dress and head covering, allowing for slowly shifting fashions over the years, is too quaint, too Hicksville to tolerate in this more enlightened present. So ... “Dog-pile on the Hillbilly!”

It’s really despicable, but unfortunately a thing I’ve seen over the years in various social settings. One year I showed up at the family Christmas celebration in gold psychedelic button bib overalls, and you’d’ve thought Liberace had come to town. With my own family! Who had one hell of a time razzing me, getting up in my grill, fingering my bibs, wondering where the candelabra was (!) and if that brand of newfangled overalls came with tails! That was the Christmas I ruined. Grandma gave one of my cousins some deodorant for Chrstmas, which I promptly took outside on that frigid night and pushed the button. It stuck open and fizzed and spun in the snow, giving him another year of smelling bad to endure.

As for my hillbilly hat, they had to think I was a sight, a regular troll under the bridge, with a fashion sense pretty stale for the Big City scene. I reject their mean-spirited attitude (in these understanding times!) and hope someday they get theirs. Curses on them, actual curses! May their homes burn to the ground, and may all their dates lead to various diseases for themselves and their partners. And may their stumbling parents fall and not be able to get up.

The Jumpatron -- Nothing Gets the Jump on Me

I know, it doesn't look like a 9000.
A guy modified it for me with parts
from a 9100. I like the added
horsepower of the second large gauge.

I've long been known as a trendsetter, even though I hate that word. Still, it's descriptive, and that's what counts. Other kids were doing the Twist, I did the Time Warp. In the days of tie-dye, I had a preppie look. When backpacks were the rage in the '70s, I carried a briefcase. Other kids carried their books one hand on the side, I held mine two hands. They tried to clear up acne, I went au naturel. They dated girls, I was stubbornly celibate.

I've taken some pride in all that only because a positive self-image means fewer expensive prescriptions. But what it really comes down to is a fear of someone or something getting the jump on me. The reason I've always anticipated trends -- what's hot and what's passe -- is that I've always studied the angles. Completely out of fear. Always looking behind me. Checking under the bed. Counting my pennies 10 times.

When it comes to the normal everyday things of life, I'm always thinking, "Yeah, it's cool-looking on one level, but what will it look like in 10 years?" So the future itself doesn't get a jump on me, I'm very judgmental of things.

You hear people do it all the time, but most of them are late. Like portable, mobile phones. One of my uncles had a car phone in the late '50s. He beamed with pride when he showed it to me. But it was like one of those old crank phones, about three foot tall, a horn you talked into, another piece you put to your ear, with a weird cloth cord. I hated to tell him, "Not good. You think it's cool, but this is about the dorkiest antique I've ever seen." I was five years old, so I couldn't hold back.

It wasn't till the '80s that the big monster cell phones, mobile phones, became a mass market item. But remember them? It was like a suitcase with an antenna. We had a youth pastor at church, around 1989, and he had a fake toy phone. He told the kids he thought he looked cool when he was driving around pretending to talk on it. "Look cool?" I thought, "please, that's so old -- even though it's new -- it's ridiculous!"

When you're this way, as I've always been, you're hard to impress. But, again, it's all fear. I realize that, this damned obsession with everything getting the jump on me. So what do I own? I'm a little embarrassed to say, I have an iPhone. I was real reluctant to get it, knowing how it's going to seem someday, but I've never had the talent to build my own phone of the future. And even if I did, I'd get in trouble trying to independently build an infrastructure to handle it.

That's also how I've been with music. The various decades stations on the radio never impress me. They're so excited to be living in the past. While, in the past, I had my eyes on the horizon. Have you ever listened to the '60s channel on Sirius XM? If it's the same as it was last time I was a captive audience and had to hear it -- while getting my oil changed -- you have DJs pretending it's 1966 or 1968, saying passe things like "Sock it to me!" and "You bet your sweet bippy." I remember that at the time. And I was sitting there silently, not allowing momentary catchphrases to get the jump on me. If I was going to say anything, it'd be something from the '70s, the Fonz going, "Aaaaaa!" Which didn't make sense, so I was silent.

You might think, "Wow! Let's follow this guy around. He'll point us to the next big thing, and we'll make a fortune." But it doesn't work that way, because even though I know a lot about what's cool, speaking of the future, even to tell someone is in essence the future getting a jump on me. I can tell you this much, the future's pathetic.

I've done some serious study of the past, as an aid to keeping ahead of the present and to anticipate the future. Looking at the old radios and old cars is a real blast. There's an interesting fact about radios from the 1920s. They look almost identical to modern radios/iPod/Bluetooth players, horizontal with two small speakers in front. Quite a bit different from the radio monstrosities of the '40s. I was always aghast at those big things. To think, we could've had a second garage. Or room for a Jumpatron, a time-traveling, time-shifting, trend-discerning piece of hardware. I just checked my 9000. It says that everything except itself is nearing obsolescence.

And as for cars of the past -- all of them being horrendous, very ugly -- the cars of the 1920s are so old-fashioned looking, it's pathetic. Those big square corners, looking like something out of a gangster movie. One, they should've totally avoided the gangster look. And, two, they should have realized, these SOBs just look old. I can see me now, if I were suddenly back in the '20s: "Is this the best you can do, or are you pulling my leg?" Sheesh!

The basic rule of thumb to remember is this: If it looks cool today, it's passe junk tomorrow. Get a jump on the future before it gets a jump on you. Essentially, don't do or own anything.

Men's Underwear -- 2013 Vs. 1913

I always said I wouldn't get involved in these pointless debates of what they had in the past vs. what we have now. For one, who is there to debate with? If we're talking about 2013 vs. 1913, there's plenty of us, but very few people from 1913. And even if they were from 1913, they wouldn't have stayed in 1913, they'd be right here with us in 2013.

This has been a constant with me, ever since I saw the episode of "Bewitched" where Benjamin Franklin comes back from the past and is immediately driving a fire truck. Those from the past adhere to the things of their time only until they're brought to the future. It's something of a law, The Past Adherence/Present Forbearance Law, unless you can think of something snappier.

If we're debating, let's say, the relative merits of men's underwear from 1913 vs. 2013, were we to bring a guy here from 1913, he'd probably say the underwear of 2013 is better. And for another reason, simply because the average man from any time doesn't have any real reason to tout the underwear of his time particularly; he's not cheering for 1913, per se, but only looking for comfort, in addition, of course, to good value and other qualities.

But these debates come up anyway, because we really have this urge to compare ourselves to someone else and take sides, whether for our own self image, or, it's conceivable because someone actually believes there's merit in it. Like I said, I've always said I didn't want to get involved in such things, but -- forgive me -- this one is too interesting to simply let it go. I really would like to see a decent debate over the underwear of 2013 vs. that of 1913. And you know what, I truly believe 2013 would kick 1913's ass!

It's been a hundred years, folks, and the issue has dragged on for too many years: Is the men's underwear of 2013 truly superior to that of 1913? I'm going to say yes.

Just looking at the picture, the underwear of 1913 looks pretty tough, too tough for me. I'll give 1913 this, their underwear definitely looks durable. But who really wants that toughness? You'd be sleeping, if you were lucky enough to get to sleep, and you'd feel the toughness of that fabric. A gunny sack would be more comfortable. But the picture from 2013 shows a lighter fabric, something that breathes, something that goes with your body, not against it. It's definitely going to be more comfortable. We've made strides since those dark days when it comes to fabric. The pictures don't lie.

Another thing, going by the above presentation, the guy from 1913 himself looks like a tough old buzzard, whereas our 2013 contemporary looks cool, calm, and collected. It's something about the underwear -- Mr. 1913 turned into some kind of mountain man/hermit, with no access to a razor, with it having something to do with the underwear. Maybe he didn't want anyone to see that weird codpiece on him.

OK, I'm getting too negative. Instead, I want to focus on the qualities of 2013's underwear, and that will keep things more positive. First, I like the way the straps on the shoulders are so delicate, fitting like a dream. But look at our friend from 1913, it's definitely a tight fit at the neck; he's going to be itching all night. Then there's the legs. 2013 has shorts, much more comfortable, unless it's winter, in which case 1913 has the upper hand, not forgetting for a second the lack of comfort in the fabric.

Finally, notice that 2013 has a smile on his face. But 1913 is looking somewhat more dour, even perplexed at what's happening: Have I somehow traveled into the future and met a man who's going to taunt me for my old fashioned underwear? I'm buttoned up tight, but look at him, loose as a goose. Were we to strip down to our bare nubbins, he'd beat me in a heartbeat. He'd be nude in a jiffy while I was still fidgeting with my neck piece. Then he'd be under the covers just that quick, that nubile 100-year-younger flesh pressed against the satin sheets, waiting for me, an older and more experienced man to crawl in with him. Imagine that, a guilt-free roll in the hay, since I'm from 100 years in the past and no one knows me. I could be Rip Van Winkle for all this guy knows. And they're not expecting me back in 1913. I think I'll go for it. And maybe he'll turn me on to some halfway decent underwear when it's all over. Then next week I'll have a job driving a modern fire truck, putting out other fires. Hey, baby boy, come to Poppa...

Pajamas In Church -- Style Or Sacrilege?

Something happened in church today that for me and others started out terrible, but ended up not so bad. It was one of those moments where you're taken aback, and speaking for myself, even filled with revulsion, but then something extraordinary happens, and next thing you know you're a little more inspired. I'm glad it doesn't happen that often, though, because I'm not sure my poor heart could take it!

Here's what it was. The day started off normal. All the preliminaries. Then Pastor Wadd mounted the pulpit and was into a barn-burner sermon on "Modern Gomorrah Out-Sodoms Sodom." In case you don't know, his ministry specialty is combating sexual addictions. So at this point, as far as we knew, it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, without any warning, a couple of people came in the back door, a young man and a young woman, college-aged, and walked down the aisle and lounged right there on the floor of the platform. And if that wasn't bad enough -- the obvious disruption -- they were dressed in pajamas! Of course we know it's not unusual for people to wear pajamas in public today -- it's something of a fashion, a very bad fashion.

So there they were, looking up at the pastor like they were actually interested in his message, trying to suppress a sarcastic smile, according to my interpretation. I felt my blood pressure rise, I was so mad I thought I'd bust a vein. Pastor Wadd looked totally flummoxed, the people around me were aghast, and as for me, as I said, I was seething. My teeth were clenched so tight I might have done actual damage to a couple of molars.

OK, now something else was going on back by the door that I didn't know about. But the events, as reconstructed, went something like this. One of our oldest members -- an old deacon named Guy Miller, Deacon Miller -- was back there pulling off his pants, having worn his pajamas under them ... All I knew at the time was old Guy Miller comes walking down the aisle in his pajamas! And if you know how he walks, it's very slow and labored, one excruciating step after another. It was like the Via Dolorosa.

So there he goes -- Deacon Miller -- with his normal suit coat, and pajama bottoms, painfully walking the aisle toward the platform. The young couple are now also rapt, Pastor Wadd's looking on in slow motion, and the rest of the congregation, including me, have dropped our jaws. Finally, Guy Miller arrives at the platform, and the young college man reaches his hand to help him up the steps. Both of them, him and her, help the old deacon to the floor. We now have quite a scene, you'd have to agree!

Pastor cleared his throat, and looking out over us seemed to grant his seal of approval to the scene, probably thanks to the quick thinking of Deacon Miller, who taught us ... something ... I still haven't figured out exactly what.

My blood pressure dove back to its normal range, but I still don't entirely approve of everything that happened. Plus, I'm wondering why Guy had pajamas on under his pants. Wouldn't they have been riding up his legs?

Everyone's Comfortable With Themselves

There's something very interesting I've noticed. The old discomfort people used to have with themselves seems to be gone. It's obviously a new day for self-confidence and pride, which I think is a great thing.

We used to have this whole thing with magnifying our supposed imperfections, thinking we were ugly, etc., and we didn't have the same attitude prevalent today. I don't know why we did it. I guess it could've had something to do with our parents, always worrying themselves sick with how we looked. "You can't go out with your hair like that! Is that what you're going to wear?! I'd be ashamed to be seen with you!" So we'd carry that attitude with us, like a constant burden.

But now everything's a lot more swinging. Babies get their ears pierced, parents are proud of everything their offspring do, and style is really any old thing you can throw on. I love it, it's a new day! Our lives are on display! Everyone's happy!

Another thing that might explain the lack of discomfort is all the cameras we're toting around. Digital cameras. We see people taking pictures of everything, whereas we didn't do that 40 years ago. You had a roll of 24 pictures and it cost money to get them developed. But with digital, it's all free, so everyone's walking around town taking pictures of themselves with the camera extended arm's length. "There's a cool expression! Look how I can cross my eyes! I'm cool!" It's great! You're more proud of yourself when you're clicking pictures.

I have to confess, I still carry over some of the old discomfort myself. I say, I'm too bald, too fat (although my doctor says I'm by no means obese), my teeth suck, there's nose hair where there used to be none, etc. It's hard to get with it, with the new way of doing things, but I'm really trying. I look and see guys who look far worse than me, only they don't know it. And I think, I should act like that, then think like that, and without comparing myself to those who look worse, be simply proud of myself.

People today, I honestly think, have got it going on! And I'm getting into the flow of things. I may be an old man, but I'm trying to be the best old man, even a folklore-looking codger, let's say, that young hipsters might like to have their picture taken with. I'm flashing gang signs that I just made up. I'm with the best people on earth, the average guy and gal on the street! Take off your suit jacket and break dance on the street. Spin on your jacket, it's just cloth! True!

So I'm out there ... and more. And what do I see? People who are psychically healthy, very healthy. They're proud of their tattoos, their bra straps, their headbands, shirt tails, and underwear. They're flashing cool hand signs everywhere, one finger, two finger with a gap, five fingers straight up, the A-OK sign, etc. They're proud if they're bald, furry, wearing black, wearing white, in make-up, without make-up, if they're Plain Jane or Jane Mansfield, Bubba or Burt Reynolds, whatever may be may be, world without end, Amen.

I was out today, sitting in a restaurant, and saw some of the greatest cleavage of my life. This was breakfast. I drooled egg yolk on my shirt, which I'm proud of. It's like a shirt tattoo. Lastly, my complexion -- like I said, I'm old, but once in a while I still, even I, get a pimple. Who cares? It's not like anyone cares anymore.

Dressing Down The Uniformly Dressed

I like to dress down people in uniforms. Not to their face, of course, only when we're not together. If I'm there with them, I'm properly respectful, all the while thinking, "[Grumbling] You dirty rotten...."

I might clarify, I don't have anything against them, and I don't really grumble, "You dirty rotten...." I know people have to have certain uniforms to do certain jobs, and even agree it's helpful. If you're doing the job of a policeman, it's helpful to the public to be able to see your uniform.

Still, just to take the example of the police, how corny their uniforms are! Yet they still wear them with such pride, all the way down to keeping their shoes spit shine. I can see myself respecting the reflective officer who stays nicely uniformed in the office but pulls his shirt out of his pants when he's in public and wears tennis shoes. With his badge moved from the side to the center of his chest, like Superman. Or with his shirt open and his chest hair hanging out.

I was reminded of this the other day while driving out of state. I noticed they were out in force, solving the low-hanging fruit of crime, speeding offenses. Although this one guy went by me like I was sitting still -- I was going 70 -- and there wasn't an officer in sight. The only ones I saw were on the other side of the median. I just happened to see one guy pulled over right now, as it was happening. And I saw one who was already pulled over, with the officer strolling to the car and getting to the window.

So there he is, strolling to the car and getting to the window. And what do I notice? His uniform! So proud of his corny looking uniform! I pictured myself as the offended motorist who was pulled over, dressing down the guy (although of course I'd never actually do that. When you're pulled over, which frankly doesn't happen to me, you have to kiss butt.)

But in one's imagination: "Excuse me, officer, why do you wear that strange looking hat? What are you, a Canadian Mountie wanna-be, or do you tastes run more toward Smokey the Bear? Let's take a look at the secondary badge on your hat. Hmm, right in the middle, such predictable symmetry!" Then I'd move down to the cliche blue shirt, "So you went with the standard blue shirt, how typical ... and boring. And that brown strap across your chest, I assume that's something for your holster. It certainly can't be for looks! Because it looks ridiculous. And how about those meticulously polished, ridiculously shiny shoes! To me, shoes are like photos, I want matte, not glossy!"

And I have one more complaint about the pants. What is it about the typical patrolman's stride? Is there a regulation corncob built in the seat of their pants, inside? Know what I mean? They walk like it. They come sashaying up in a subdued Frankenstein gait. Whipping out their old fashioned ticket book. They never have their place marked. They always have to thumb through it to find the next available page. Real high tech stuff! Nutso stuff! This is what our tax dollars are buying: dorky old ticket books!

Cops are human beings. They're turned off by criticism, I'm sure of it. That's why it never pays to criticize them. Personally, I'd hate to be a patrolman. I think they'd feel like such hypocrites for giving people tickets for stuff they themselves have done. But somebody's gotta do it. The city, county, and state need the money. And as long as they're not pulling me over -- since I never do anything wrong -- I can live with it.

Calling Attention To Yourself

This is just my opinion, but I think it's the way to live: I think it's good to call attention to yourself. And I also think you want to, but maybe you don't realize the rest of us want that for you, too!

Believe it or not, you don't have to jump up and shout to call attention to yourself. It can be done many different ways. You can sit quietly in the corner, absorbed in your own thoughts, and eventually someone will wonder about the quiet person in the corner. He's a man of mystery, how intriguing, or she's a femme fatale, a French phrase that's intriguing all by itself. Or you can jump and shout, or just short of that, be an engaging and obviously dynamic person, and you'll receive attention.

You can just use what Mother Nature gave you, your smile. The way you brush your hair. A walk of confidence. Boldness. Joie de vivre! How is it all the French I know are the intriguing bits?

I know there's lots of people out and about, on the street, who are trying their best to call attention to themselves, all the while appearing to be self-absorbed and cagey. And I'm willing to give it to them, watching them for a good long while, sometimes till they're out of sight, or even tipping down my glasses if they're too close.

Since they want attention, why not give it to them? If someone then looks at me, like, "What are you staring at, four eyes?" I have pull off some little line from the top of my head and say it with insouciance, like, "I love your look." Or I might just give a quick two thumbs up and go back to my reading. If you're in a situation like that, maybe giving more attention than might be socially acceptable, just go back to your reading and keep a knowing grin on your face, glancing up once in a while as if to say, "You still here?"

Do you need to be on top of fashion to legitimately call attention to yourself? No. I can't imagine saying yes to that, of course, because what is fashion? Someone else's idea of what's hot. What's hot is who you are. The other stuff just accentuates it, and it does not -- I repeat, it does not have to be quote-unquote fashionable. Any old garbage can be very sweet. I saw a guy downtown just today, true story, who had a raggedy shirt with a big tear on the back, a gaping hole, but with the way he was going across the street, the confidence he had, and the full Vigor Vivus of life, I fanned myself all the way home, "Tres chic!"

When it comes to fashion, or not fashion, since I don't really know what fashion even is, I love a disparate look, a little of this, a little of that, where it looks like it came out of five different drawers. Anything with boots is hot, but I'm leaving cowboy boots out of that, because they always draw the feet in for too much of an instep and tend to push the hips out so there's a bowlegged look even if you've never ridden a horse. Multiple colors is nice, striped socks, a lot of black, some coloring in the hair is sweet and a guaranteed attention-getter, comme il faut. Or go the opposite way, something that is so simple, like it came from just one drawer, a darling little chemise, is fantastic! Je t'aime! Je t'aime!

Then there's attention-getting that has nothing to do with clothes. Such as striving in every way to get people to notice you because you're great, or you're a genius, or for some other positive inner reason you have. This is where friends come in very handy. Because it's obviously a lot easier to do the things that call attention to yourself if you have a group around. Let's say you have a boisterous, charming laugh. If you're just boisterously laughing to yourself all by yourself, that's not usually a good look. That would be negative attention. But if the group is in motion, en rapport, and there's a harmoniousness all around that is pleasant to see, and you're standing out, your boisterous, charming laugh coming up over the obviously well-engaged group, that knocks me out. And it knocks out everyone else, too. Just be aware, this is a tough thing to fake; it's got to be real.

I go around town and I see a lot of folks with sorrowful countenances. I think the problem is, we all want attention, but we're not all good at getting it. Be encouraged, the rest of us are dying to give it to you, you just need to be bold and put yourself forward. You're a lot cooler than you think, mon petit chéri ou ma petite chérie!

Weird Fashion

When I was at the bookstore the other day I came [this close] to buying a book on fashion trends, weird fashion, something like that. It was chock full of cool color pictures of bored, archly posed models. And I believe some of them were printed at angles for extra coolness.

O that I had bought it! I've been kicking myself ever since. But it was $14.98 and since I'm used to getting my books at thrift stores, anything over a few dollars seems high to me. I just need to remind myself that's normal for everyone else. And I'm certainly not going to find anything that cool at the thrift store, at least until 20 years from now when some current kid grows up and gets rid of her things.

The book -- I didn't catch the publisher's name -- was published by the same publisher who put out a book on tattoos. The books were right next to each other. Maybe I can Google it. (Nah, can't find it for sure. There's some tattoo books that look sort of like it but I can't remember it precisely. Anyway, it was the fashion book I wanted. But the tattoo book was cool too. It had some nudity, as people have their entire bodies tattooed in some cases.)

Why would I want this book on fashion? I'm not a fashionable person. That's for sure. I have a few boring shirts, a few boring pairs of pants, a couple pairs of boring shoes, one belt, some normal underpants, etc. My budget for clothes is zero. I don't buy fashion magazines, etc., etc. I would want it because of the fun ideas it might stimulate. I don't know how everyone else gets ideas for things, but I need to have my brain kicked into gear once in a while. Like when it's empty. Like now. And if I see a bunch of unusual patterns, strange makeup, clothes with wings, bushels of fabric piled high, that would do it.

I tried to go to a fashion blog. But she must have some kind of weird script on it because my computer rebelled. So my hard drive went into one of those terrible spins where it can barely quit. Things were being closed out -- my browser. Then it spun some more and the browser finally came back. Firefox has a message now saying "How embarrassing," that Firefox closed and is having troubles restoring your tabs. We went YEARS without seeing that, but now everyday there it is, "How embarrassing." Very annoying.

I would love to be a fashionable guy. Here I come, in a cute little T shirt, the bottom all askew, dipping down on the sides to a point, a V neck all the way to my solar plexus, a hat that looks like an inverted purse with a red feather sticking straight out of my head. My pants aren't Oshkosh B'Gosh, but more like Posh O'myGod. People's heads are turning as they see a series of bells and whistles dangling everywhere.

It's the fashionable life for me!